House Drabbles
by libbiliboo
Summary: Just random House stuff. Will be rather a bit of Hilson/Huddy.
1. 1: Oh, Wilson

This is my first House fic. Potentially triggering. Please rate and review! Also, spoilers for the end of Season 4. Unfortunately for me, I do not own House. That beauty belongs to David Shore.

House limped down the corridor, his stomach growling audibly. He leant into his cane more than usual, gritting his teeth against the pain as he made a mental tally of the amount of pills in his pocket. Reaching his lunch buddy's office, he waited for a minute, listening to the heavy breathing of the office's occupant. Smirking at the thought of finding Wilson in a compromising situation, he raised his cane and tried to open the door, only for the rubber tip to bounce straight at him, almost making him lose his precious balance.

He cocked his head, confused. Wilson never locked his office door, unless he had a patient, and House had watched the office carefully for almost an hour to avoid clinic duty. No-one had gone in, no-one had gone out. So why was the door locked? Rapping of the door continually with the wooden end of his cane, House listened as Wilson scrabbled around, desk drawers banging like bombs. Suddenly, the door was opened like a pop-gun, and House practically fell into Wilson, only the young oncologist keeping him from face-planting the floor.

"What do you want, House?" Wilson said tiredly, tugging down the sleeve of his pristine white doctor's coat. He looked almost scared, eyes glancing down at the second desk drawer every few seconds.

"Jumpy, aren't we?" House replied instantly, winking mischievously. Wilson just rolled his chocolate brown eyes and put his hands on his hips.

"Seriously, if you're just here to screw around with me, piss off," the oncologist snapped, holding open his office door.

"You've got your lab coat on," House said suddenly, balancing his cane against the door, preventing either of them from escaping.

"So?" Wilson answered, his face remaining cool, but his eyes portraying the very essence of fear.

"Whenever you're in your office, you always take off your lab coat and roll up your sleeves, and you don't usually wear your suit jacket with the lab coat."

Wilson bit his lip.

"I-I just didn't have time to take it off," he stammered. "I just got here."

"I've been watching your office for an hour," the diagnostician countered. "You've been here the whole time." House took his orange bottle out of his pocket and popped a couple of pills, swallowing them dry. Wilson looked about ready to cry as he collapsed into his office chair, pulling down his sleeve again. Out of the blue, House leant over the desk and yanked Wilson's arm towards himself, making the younger doctor yelp.

"What the hell!?" Wilson yelled as House grabbed his cane and kicked the door closed. "What are you doing!?"

"Shut up," House mumbled, pulling up the coat and jacket sleeves. The shirt sleeve was spotted with dark crimson liquid, small patches spreading to cover the sky blue material. House looked up, shock written all over his face as Wilson hung his head, breathing shallowly. Cautiously. House rolled up the shirt sleeve, ignoring the still burning pain in his leg; Wilson was all that mattered right now.

Nothing, nothing in the entire world could have prepared him for what lay on his best friend's arm.

The pale skin was littered with neat lines of cuts, a gap left for the vein. There had to have been at least 50 cuts, running from the wrist right up to the elbow. The first two lines or so were older, beginning to scab over, but had clearly been picked at. The others were fresh, still oozing blood.

"Oh, Wilson..." House whispered, his electric blue eyes meeting Wilson's dark ones, which were overflowing with tears. The oncologist pressed his free hand to his mouth, suppressing a sob as House ran his hand over the cuts, staring at the blood that stained them.

"Sorry," said Wilson, his voice muffled.

"Give me your pager," House said shortly, letting go of Wilson's wrist and holding his hand out. "Cuddy doesn't answer my emergency pages."

"No!" Wilson practically shrieked, jumping up, re-covering his arm. "You can't, and I repeat, _can't_ , tell Cuddy! I'll lose my job, I'll lose my house, I'll lose everything..."

Wilson paced his office, almost hyperventilating as tears continued to spill onto his cheeks.

"You won't lose anything, you idiot," House replied, sitting on the plush sofa, massaging his thigh. "Sit down and give me your pager, or I'll just go and steal Foreman's, or one of the ducklings', you know I will."

Wilson viciously threw his pager at his best friend, knowing that it would be fruitless to resist, but didn't sit down, loitering by the door, peeking out of the thin window.

"Sit down before you pass out," House repeated, typing quickly. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly in great shape to drag you across the floor."

Wilson's head snapped up, his chest still heaving.

"B-bad pain d-day?" he asked, stubbornly wiping his eyes.

"Never mind me, you're the one who could be potentially bleeding out."

Wilson's once-thoughtful eyes widened in shock.

"I-I-I didn't cut th-that deep," he stuttered, his eyes straying to the desk drawer. Curious, House sidled over and tried to open the drawer; of course, it was locked. Wilson shook his head dumbly, anticipating the question. House shrugged, and reached under the coffee cup, smirking at the small silver key. Unlocking the drawer, he retrieved a small scalpel, stained with blood. Wilson's blood.

"At least you had the sense to use a sterile instrument, I suppose," he mused as Cuddy burst through the door, looking rumpled.

"This had better be important, Wilson," she said, straightening her skirt, not yet having looked her head oncologist fully in the face.

"Actually, I wanted you here," House said, leaning on the desk. Cuddy sighed.

"If you want some crazy procedure authorised, at least drag your ass down to my office instead of-"

"Wilson's cutting himself."

Cuddy stopped in her tracks, mouth hanging open in shock.

"What?" she exclaimed disbelievingly, turning to the frozen Wilson. "Is this true?"

Wilson opened his mouth to speak, but House shushed him and simply held up the blood-stained scalpel.

"Is this enough proof?" he said.

Cuddy closed the door, gently taking Wilson's arm and rolling up the bloodied sleeve just as House had done, gasping.

"Amber?" she asked quietly. Wilson nodded and buried his face in Cuddy's shoulder, sobbing. Cuddy stroked his hair in a mother-like way, rubbing his back as he hiccuped and emerged, wiping his eyes.

"This is stupid, just go back to whatever you were doing," he mumbled, going to his desk chair and sitting down slowly in it, massaging his temples.

"You okay?" House said, concern creeping into his usually cold voice.

"Just got a little light-headed, that's all, I'll be fine in a minute," Wilson said, his voice muted. House reached into his blazer pocket and shone his penlight into Wilson's eyes, making the younger doctor squint and try to pull away.

"We've got to stitch these up before he goes into hypovolemic shock," House muttered. "Is there a sewing kit in here?" 

House pulled the needle through the skin, tying it off to finally finish the last stitch.

"If you rip these out, I swear to God I'm going to personally kill you," he growled. Wilson let out a watery laugh, his thumb stroking the picture of his dead girlfriend he kept on his desk.

"I miss her," he said simply.

"We all miss her," replied Cuddy, rubbing his shoulder. House almost scoffed at the sentimentality of it all, but was silenced as a wave of loss hit him face-first. He looked down, gripping his cane. All of a sudden, his pager beeped madly. Looking at it, he sighed at the ducklings' ignorance. #

"I gotta go before a bitch fight breaks out between the ducklings," he said quickly, moving towards the door. "I'll drop by later, Wilson."

Wilson nodded, his attention focused on the grainy picture.

"I'll stay at his tonight," he whispered in Cuddy's ear. Cuddy nodded, smiling sadly, watching as her top diagnostician limped towards the elevator.

 _Both of them_ , she thought. _They both have to be saved from themselves._


	2. 2: It's Just Allergies

**A fun little drabble. Established Hilson, btw.** **Had a little moment in English earlier this week when we were watching the 90s version of "Much Ado About Nothing", just looked up to see a really young (and good-looking) Robert Sean Leonard... awkward... Anyway, this is with the original ducklings (Cameron, Chase and good old Foreman). Please remember to rate and review!**

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Hunger gnawed at House's stomach as the ducklings conducted the differential diagnosis, arguing passionately about their personal views.

"All of the symptoms point to autoimmune," Cameron insisted, waving the file. "Could be lupus."

"It's never lupus," House said, banging his cane on the glass table to disguise his stomach growling loudly. "I'm going to watch _General Hospital_ until you lot stop arguing like a bunch of puppies."

Rising, he limped as fast as he could out of the door, ignoring the shouts of the team behind him. He smirked; he loved it when the ducklings hated what he did, but were powerless to stop him.

He turned into the doctor's lounge. The small recreational space was deserted, the TV left on in the others' haste to leave. Clearly news travelled fast that House was on the move. He ignored the Foosball table, which was rocking feebly, and even _General Hospital_ playing on the telly, and made a beeline for the fridge. Opening the door, he immediately spotted his own lunch, wrapped in a brown paper bag. Opening the bag, he saw that the fluorescent green post-it-note attached read:

 _House,  
This is YOUR lunch. Don't you dare eat mine again, I made you one for a reason.  
Love you  
Wilson xoxo_

He smiled at Wilson's simpering romantic ways, but ignored the entire message of the note and took Wilson's lunch. Some sort of salad was rolling around in the tub; House didn't really want to eat it, but hey, for old times sake.

Wilson was going to get so mad.

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Wilson's head lay on the desk, a file obscured underneath the wavy chestnut hair. Small snoring sounds came from his unmoving figure, and his pen was still held loosely in his hand. The room was completely tranquil, barely a sound in hearing range.

Suddenly, the door slammed open, jolting the oncologist awake. He jumped up, looking around blearily. His eyes fell on House and he sighed, letting his head slam back onto the desk.

"Morning, sleeping beauty," House yelled in a sing-song voice, shutting the door noisily. Wilson sighed, looking up unhappily.

"Just let me sleep," he mumbled, trying to sort out his hair without a mirror whilst rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"'Fraid I can't do that, sweet-cheeks," the diagnostician replied wittily, taking another bite of the salad. Wilson smiled, but he raised an eyebrow when he saw the box.

"My lunch? Really?"

House shrugged, sitting on the chair in front of Wilson's desk.

"Old times," he said, absent-mindedly scratching at his arm. Wilson spied this, and quickly noted the perspiration on his forehead.

As he realised, his face fell like an avalanche.

"Oh, God," he mumbled.

"What?" House asked, mouth full. Wilson cleared his throat nervously.

"Oh God," he repeated urgently. "Please tell me you have an EpiPen on you."

"No," the older doctor replied, swallowing another bite. "You know I never carry the stupid thing around. Never needed it."

"You know that salad?"

"Yeah?"

"You know how you're sort of deathly allergic to avocados?"

"Yup."

"The salad has avocados in it."

Both of their eyes widened; House peeled back the sleeve of his shirt to reveal the angry red, blotchy hives, which were swelling to an impressive size. Both of their breathing sped up. Wilson jumped up and began looking desperately around his office as House scratched at his arm again, watching bemusedly.

"Stop scratching," Wilson ordered, his head virtually inside his desk drawer as he searched for an EpiPen.

"Sorry mum," House muttered before groaning and wrapping a hand around his stomach. Wilson whipped round, crouching down to look House in the face.

"Nausea just hit?" he said worriedly. House nodded as he paled considerably. He tried to motion to Wilson's jacket, but his hand simply flopped uselessly. Wilson gently felt House's throat, looking up, shocked. "Your throat's beginning to close up."

With renewed flustering, Wilson began looking in the most unlikely places; under the sofa cushions, on the bookcase, in the wastepaper bin. House wheezed, but managed to shout the much-needed answer.

"COAT!" he yelled before throwing up all over the carpet, spluttering and choking. Wilson fled over to his white jacket, and, reaching into the inside pocket, pulled out the small orange tube. Rushing over to House, he elevated the others' lolling head before plunging the EpiPen into (unfortunately) House's bad leg, House howled in pain, resting his head on Wilson's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, shh," Wilson soothed, placing a gentle kiss on House's head just as Cuddy burst in, looking panicked.

"What-what's going on?" she panted, trying to catch her breath. "Why is there sick all over the carpet?"

"Avocados," Wilson answered shortly, carefully lifting House's head. "Flat out. Trust him to go the whole 9 yards. Scared me half to death."

"Wilson," Cuddy said quietly, kneeling down to join him on the floor. "Are you and House a... thing?"

Wilson looked upset, looking everywhere but at Cuddy, yet nodded all the same, silently stroking his partner's thinning grey hair. Cuddy smiled, watching the obvious affection Wilson had for the older man.

"I'm admitting him," Wilson said, clearing his throat. "The EpiPen will wear off soon, and he needs the stronger stuff. Can you get me a private room for him; he hates this, sees it as a weakness."

Cuddy nodded, leaving the two of them alone just as House began to come around.

"You bastard," were the first words to tumble out of his mouth as he rubbed his leg agitatedly.

"Yes, I'm sorry for saving your life," Wilson quipped sarcastically, bringing out his penlight and checking House's pupils. "How'd'you feel?"

"Just peachy," the other replied in the typical Housesian way. "Of course I feel like crap, Wilson, I just went into anaphylactic shock."

"No need for the sarcasm."

"Who remarkably not like me are you saying that to?"

Wilson laughed, looking down at the floor before meeting House's eyes.

"Go and sleep it off, you idiot" he said. "Just remember, this is why you don't eat my lunch."

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 **Sorry for the awful ending.**


	3. 3: The Coming-Out Parade

**'Sup dudes. Another chapter for you, because I have nothing better to do on a Saturday afternoon. I suppose technically slight Season 6 spoilers. Enjoy, and please, please, please remember to rate and review! If you want a specific chapter or imagine written, I will happily take requests, just PM me with your idea. Please note that I am currently halfway through Season 7, so if any spoilers, preferably nothing set after the beginning of Season 7.**

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Thin October sunshine filtered through the curtains of 221B, illuminating the bedroom. Silvery dust flew around the air, settling on the bookcase and knickknacks. The cane sat on the floor, held upright by the bedside table. Two entwined hands lay between the two people on the bed, one rough, one soft.

House grunted in his sleep, unconsciously trying to place his hand on his thigh to massage it, only to find that it was trapped in Wilson's grasp. The inability to relieve the pain woke the diagnostician, and he groaned quietly as he realised that it was a Monday, and both of them were an hour late already.

"Wilson," he said gruffly. "Get up."

Wilson stayed stubbornly asleep, leaning into the sound of House's voice. House sighed and rolled his eyes, before uttering the fateful words:

"Wilson, if you don't get up, I'm burning your red stripy tie."

Wilson sat bolt upright. On the right side of his head, his hair was sticking directly upright, giving his a crazed look as he blearily rubbed his eyes.

"What's the time?" he yawned, stretching.

"9."

Wilson's face fell, and he stumbled out of bed, looking around despairingly.

"Late, House, we're LATE," he yelled, throwing on his shirt, which lay on the floor in a crumpled heap. House stayed sat on his edge of the bed, massaging his thigh, grimacing as he dreaded having to stand upright. Wilson whipped round, tying his tie. "Why aren't you getting ready? We've gotta go!"

"I don't want to go in," House replied truthfully, looking up at Wilson with puppy-dog eyes. Wilson's face immediately softened, and he knelt down in front of House.

"Neither do I, but I have to," he whispered, gently kissing him. House pulled away, grinning mischievously as he dialled a number on his phone.

"Pretend to be throwing up when I signal," he ordered. Wilson gave him a strange look, but nodded all the same. House clicked on speakerphone as the person answered.

"House?" Cuddy answered. "Where the hell are you!? And what have you done with Wilson?"

"Rude," House said. "Wilson's ill, and I'm looking after him."

"What?" Cuddy replied, sounding concerned.

"Yeah, he came over last night," House lied fluently; Wilson ducked his head to keep himself from giggling. "I told him not to have the chicken from the Chinese, but he wouldn't listen to me. Been throwing up all night."

"Oh my God, is he okay?" she said urgently. "Do you need me to drop some supplies off?"

"No, we should be fine," House replied, looking alarmed.

"Just give me a call if you need anything," she said, sounding skeptical. House gave the thumbs-up sign frantically. Wilson gave some very convincing retching sounds, all whilst grinning his head off.

"My God!" Cuddy shrieked as Wilson's fake-vomiting sounds faded away. "Are you sure you don't need anything?"

"I'm sure," House said, before ending the call. Wilson burst into a fit of giggles, doubling over with glee.

"You have got to teach me how to do that," he laughed, wiping his eyes as they both collapsed back down onto the bed.

"Shut up and go back to sleep."

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At around 12 o'clock, House's phone went off, the _Mean Girls_ theme tune blaring out. House and Wilson were cuddled up on the couch, watching monster trucks. House raised his eyebrows and picked up the phone, confused.

"Yeah?"

"I'm coming over," Cuddy's insistent voice said; House's eyes widened and he nudged Wilson, who looked at him inquisitively. "I'm 10 minutes from your apartment. Do not be naked."

She ended the call before House could reply.

"We have a problem," House said. "Cuddy's coming over."

"She's gonna find out," Wilson groaned, dragging his hand down his face. "We're gonna get killed."

"She doesn't have to know," House replied.

"How?"

"Well, how d'you feel about taking Ipecac?"

"Ipecac?" Wilson repeated, sounding skeptical. "Isn't that for poisoned people?"

"Technically, yeah, but it induces vomiting. Only lasts about half an hour, I can have Cuddy out of here in 20 minutes. Rub some Vaseline on your face to make you look sweaty, throw up a bit, that's convincing enough, right?"

Wilson looked around desperately, but sighed and nodded.

"You need to take it now," House urged. "It takes 10 minutes to take effect."

House hauled himself up and limped to the kitchen, reaching to the back of the cupboard and pulling out a small bottle of Ipecac syrup.

"I am so gonna regret this," Wilson muttered as he allowed House to spoon-feed him two-and-a-half tablespoons of the vomiting liquid.

"And now, we wait."

They both settled down (after House had smeared a quarter of a tub of Vaseline on Wilson's face), watching the monster trucks drive ridiculously quickly over ramps, Wilson sitting on the edge of the couch, twitching ever so slightly. After almost 10 minutes, with House half-asleep, Wilson suddenly jumped up and ran to the bathroom, waking House up with the sheer force of the vomiting.

"Guess it worked," House muttered to himself as he limped quickly to the bathroom to see Wilson with his head down the toilet.

"I hate you so much," Wilson mumbled between retches.

"Act sick."

"I am sick!" Wilson complained, finally sticking his head up, wiping his mouth and his watery eyes. As if on cue, the doorbell rang. House held up his finger as if to say 'don't move', but Wilson needed no more encouragement as he hugged the toilet, quietly sobbing to himself.

House limped as slowly as possible to the door, listening as the rings became more and more insistent. Opening the door with controlled speed, he leant on the door frame as Cuddy bustled in, dumping the equipment on the coffee table.

"Where is he?" she said briskly, but with concern.

"Bathroom," House replied, trying to look worried as he closed the door and Wilson began throwing up again. Cuddy looked at him with alarm, rushing to the bathroom, House hot on her heels.

"Oh, Wilson," she said sympathetically, kneeling down next to the sick man. "How're you feeling?"

"Like crap," Wilson moaned, setting the side of his face on the cool porcelain.

"I told you not to get the chicken," House voiced from the doorway. Wilson shot him a filthy look.

"And the great House prevails again," he said sarcastically before dry-heaving violently.

"Has he been drinking any fluids?" Cuddy asked urgently. "Eaten anything?"

"Yes, I've been making him drink water, but no, he can barely hold the fluids down," House answered, silently thanking genetics (not God, never God) that he could lie so convincingly.

Cuddy gently rubbed Wilson's back before bringing herself up.

"Look, I have to get back to the hospital," she said, sounding pained. "I can't get back over here, so I'll come round tomorrow morning."

House nodded, and quickly showed her out before rushing back to the bathroom, painfully lowering himself to the floor.

"It'll be over soon," he said, rubbing gentle circles into Wilson's back, just Cuddy had done.

"How long is soon?" Wilson replied, raising his head hopefully.

"20 minutes or so."

Wilson groaned and let his head slam onto the porcelain.

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"Well, thank God _that's_ over," Wilson said as he collapsed onto the bed, exhausted. House was already there, curled silently on his side away from his best friend. He didn't even move at the sound of Wilson's voice.

"Are you okay?" the oncologist asked, shaking House's shoulder. House whimpered, and Wilson leant over him to see that House had rolled up the leg on his pyjamas, exposing the thigh muscle which was spasming madly.

"Please, just one Vicodin," House begged. "Please."

"No," Wilson said sorrowfully. "I'm sorry."

House groaned, and let himself try to fall back to sleep.

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 _The next morning_

"Morning, ducklings," House announced as he entered his office, throwing his backpack with impressive accuracy on the white chair. Thirteen, Taub, Chase and Foreman all jumped up, eager for news.

"How's Wilson?" Thirteen asked. "Heard he was pretty ill yesterday.

"God, if I had a dollar for every time I've heard _that_ today," House mused, lowering himself into a chair. "Yes, he's fine, yes, he's back today, yes, never get the chicken from Tony's China Shop."

They all nodded, slowly sitting back down, Chase giving everyone a knowing look.

"I know about the wager, Chase," House said; Chase's head whipped around to face him, the Aussie's eyes wide. He nodded, scared.

"Differential diagnosis, people!"

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"How're you feeling?" House said teasingly as he sauntered into Wilson's office, slamming the door shut behind him.

"30!" Wilson exclaimed, giving House a quick kiss after placing down his paperwork. "30 people have asked me that. A further 13 have told me that I look 'a little peaky'."

"I think we should go public with our relationship."

Wilson looked up, his mouth hanging open in shock.

"Wh-what?"

"Almost the entire hospital is in on a wager that Chase is running about whether we are dating or not," House explained. "We could make a lot of people very rich."

Wilson tried to splutter out excuses as House grabbed him by the collar and dragged him into the hallway, which was incredibly busy now people had seen House go in Wilson's office. Chase looked up from a nurses station, smirking as he knew what was going to happen. Even Cuddy was there, praying that they were dating; she could really do with the $3000 she could win.

"HEY!" House yelled, turning the very few people who weren't looking heads. He pulled Wilson towards him and kissed him, with everyone watching.

There was stunned silence for a moment as House pulled away, before a huge cheer, delighted cries and many yells of "It's about time!". Wilson smiled slightly, more in shock than anything else. House nodded.

"Hope you all get your money," he said before taking Wilson back inside his office for some much-needed calming down.

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 **I personally really like this one. Hope you do too guys!**


	4. 4: Shootout (Part 1)

**This is one of my personal favourites. I suppose Season 4 and 6 spoilers. Pretty serious trigger warnings for graphic descriptions of blood and suicide further down. if you like Gency, follow TheNinjaGirl123, she has an awesome one out!**

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The man had a jittery walk. That's the only unusual thing anyone noticed about him as he walked down the corridor of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, his hands buried deep in his hoodie pocket. Reaching the end of the corridor, he spied the door he wanted, needed, was desperate for. _James Wilson, M.D,_ it read. He smirked, not bothering to knock before barging in.

"House, this is not the-" the young doctor began tiredly before looking up and smiling pleasantly. God, that smile. It made the stranger sick to his very stomach. "Ah, Mr Peterborough. Sorry about that. What can I help you with?"

The 'patient' kicked the door shut, before bringing his hands- and his gun- out of his pocket. He aimed the revolver shakily at the stunned doctor.

"Why can't you cure me?" he spat.

"I know you're upset," the oncologist tried in that sickly, fake understanding voice. "But I don't think-"

"WHY CAN'T YOU CURE ME!?" he yelled, cocking the gun as tears poured down his face, spittle spraying with the sheer force of the shout.

"I explained this to you," the idiot who dared call himself a doctor said annoyingly calmly, standing up. "We've tried everything; chemo, surgery, even experimental treatments, but the cancer is just to aggressive. I'm sorry."

"To hell you're sorry," he hissed through gritted teeth, keeping the weapon trained on the other man. "To hell you explained it."

"Mr Peterborough-"

"Shut up!" he shrieked, finally squeezing the trigger.

The bullet flew through the air, finding its mark in the oncologist. The man's enemy doubled over, in too much shock to even scream.

"Remember me, Dr Wilson," the shooter said before raising the shaking gun to his head.

"NO!" came the strangled cry from the doctor, but it was too late.

The man was dead before he hit the ground.

Wilson fell to his knees, his hands clamped on the rough hole ripped through his abdomen. He tried to scream for help, but his throat seemed to have closed up; all he could manage was a whisper.

15 minutes, he thought. 15 minutes as his stomach fluids slowly seeped into his chest cavity, poisoning him from the inside-out.

As he fell onto his side, his thoughts flicked to House. That poor, screwed-up son-of-a-bitch was the best friend was the best friend in the entire world; in a fit of nostalgia, he wanted him here, a voice of some comfort as he slowly died.

Painfully, he reached into his trouser pocket, pulling out his trusty IPhone. As the screen illuminated, he smiled for a moment at the screensaver. It was silly, really, just him and House making stupid faces. He'd taken it at this medical conference in Geneva (Geneva, New York, definitely _not_ Geneva, Switzerland). The entire trip had been a disaster; the flight had been delayed almost 8 hours. Then, the hotel had screwed up the reservation, leading to Wilson naturally insisting that House have the one bed, condemning him to a week on the floor. To add more to the nightmare, House's leg had been playing up, so almost the entire trip (apart from their lectures) was spent in the claustrophobic hotel room, drinking beer, eating takeout and watching crappy Discovery Channel repeats. Just to top it all off, when it actually came to the lectures, House, just like always, offended almost everyone in the audience, and Wilson hadn't realised just how big the audience was, which lead to him getting serious stage fright. But he'd got that picture out of it, and that was enough for him.

Fumbling, he unlocked the phone. Blood-slick fingers slipping on the smooth screen, he managed to speed-dial who would hopefully be his saviour before dropping the phone, his hand automatically travelling back to the bullet wound.

"Yah?" House answered; Wilson could have cried with relief.

"Help," he rasped quietly, his breathing harsh and ragged. "Help."

He listened as he heard House jump up and limp out of his office.

"What happened?" House said as loudly and clearly as he could; he was clearly in an elevator, Wilson recognised the tinny echo.

"Shot. St-st-"

Wilson couldn't take it anymore and let out a howl of pain, which echoed throughout the small office, just as the gunshot had. His hands tightened around his wound, and he just wished for House to get here soon, just to see his face before he died.

Eyes straying to his attacker, he was surprised when he didn't feel even the tiniest bit angry; he simply felt sorry for the poor man. Peterborough was a good man, had a wife, two beautiful daughters... instead of the incredible husband and father they should have had, all they would remember was a murderer. It was sad, really, when you thought about it.

Time seemed to have slowed to allow for his death. Yet all Wilson could think about was House. How would House handle his death? How would House's leg handle his death? Would House go back to his old self-destructive ways? Or, worst still, would he try to kill himself for real, so he could be with Wilson? The very thought of House, alone in his small apartment, with a gun to his head, with a deadly dose of pills in his hand, bleeding out on his dirty bathroom floor, hanging from his closet with a rough rope around his neck... it terrified the crap out of the dying man.

Finally, the door of the office flew open, and House, quickly followed by Taub, Thirteen, Foreman and Chase, crouched down by him. House leant down enough to be in Wilson's direct line of sight.

"Hey," House said, his voice softer than Wilson had ever heard it. "Try not to die."

Wilson managed to smile. He reached up, pressing his blood-stained fingers to House's cheek.

"The other guy's been dead about 2 minutes," Chase's Australian lilt floated into Wilson's ear. "Can only assume he's a patient..."

Wilson shook his head frantically, screwing his eyes shut as another wave of pain hit his stomach. One thing stuck out to him, though.

Two minutes.

How the hell had it only been 2 minutes? 1/30 of an hour? 120 seconds? How?

"Hey!" House shouted urgently, bringing Wilson back to real life. "Open your eyes, stay conscious!"

At the very mention of consciousness, Wilson felt his tenuous grip on reality begin to slip away. Struggling to stay awake, he reached up again and stroked House's face.

"I'm gonna miss ya," he managed to choke out before dropping into the black void of... something, he wasn't sure.

"Get a crash cart in here!" was the last thing he heard before he succumbed completely.

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Prodding.

The first thing he felt was prodding.

Wilson slowly opened his eyes to find that he was on House's lumpy old couch. The TV was playing the Discovery Channel loudly, and a half-drunk Bourbon sat on the unpolished coffee table. House himself was sat on the armchair, poking him with his cane.

"Guess this is your heaven, huh?" House mused, lowering the cane and allowing Wilson to sit up. "Pretty sucky heaven, if I do say so myself."

"I'm... dead?" Wilson said slowly, trying to process the situation.

"At the moment, yeah."

House nodded towards the TV screen. Wilson started as he saw his own pale, dead body, and the other House- the real House- desperately trying to revive him whilst David Attenborough said something about sloths having an enticing call.

"Wh-"

"You get a choice."

House had now morphed into Amber, and Wilson felt his heart ache. "Stay here or stay alive." She reached over and stroked his face. "He needs you," she whispered, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. "Go to him."

Wilson nodded; he loved Amber, he wanted to be with her... but he loved House more.

He felt himself being sucked back into his body, and the pain hit with immense force. Then, everything went black.

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The second time he woke up, he knew immediately that he was in the ICU. He recognised the distinctive yet incredibly irritating beeping of the heartrate monitor, and the familiar squeak of the nurse's trolley.

Opening his eyes, he tried to take a deep breath, but his lungs seemed to have halved in capacity. Distressed, he tried to sit up, but a weight on his stomach pulled him down. He looked over to see Cuddy with her arms just underneath his ribs, keeping him down.

"Welcome back," she said quietly, moving her arm as she saw him sigh with relief. "You scared us all pretty bad."

He looked past her to see House asleep, precariously balanced on 2 chairs with a thin blanket thrown haphazardly on him; the blood was still on his face. Cuddy followed his line of sight, and nodded sadly.

"Chase had to slip him a sedative," she said. "This is the first time he's slept."

"How... long?" he asked raspily, his voice rough and gravelly from disuse.

"You've been in and out of it for 3 days," she replied. "What's the last thing you remember?"

He motioned for a pen and paper, his throat too sore to even consider talking anymore.

 _Remember dying,_ he wrote slowly.

"You remember dying?" Cuddy said, startled. "How-"

House sniffled in his sleep, causing her to freeze. Wilson shook his head forlornly, indicating that he didn't want to talk about it.

"That's okay, just sleep," she said softly, kissing the top of his head in a motherly fashion. "Just remember that you're lucky to be alive."

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Wilson's eyes next snapped open in the middle of a blazing argument between House and Cuddy.

"I don't care!" House yelled from his seat (which Wilson could barely see), clearly agitated.

"Just go home, take a shower, eat something!" Cuddy begged, sounding desperate, as she usually was with the genius diagnostician. "When did you last eat, and that singular fry you stole from Taub yesterday doesn't count!"

House remained silent just long enough for Wilson to announce his consciousness by groaning.

Both of them rushed to him, House slightly delayed by his stiff leg, which had shifted from it's normal 5 to a 7 on his personal pain scale in the past few days.

"If you ever die on me again, I will revive you and then murder you," House said straight away, making Wilson smile. The oncologist let his hand roam and find House's, gently clasping it, prying it away from the cane. Cuddy slipped out of the room, sensing a moment of intimacy between the two men.

"You were shot," House said flatly, pulling a chair towards himself with his free hand and sitting down. "The bullet went pretty much all the way through stomach, rupturing it. After a 3-hour operation where you flat-lined _twice_ ," at this point House glared at him malevolently, "they managed to stop the bleeding and sew you up. You lost 3 pints of blood, and your body went into total hypovolemic shock. You get strictly fluids for the next few days, then runny food- basically slop- for four weeks before soft food for another couple of weeks, then you can go back to normal food, but ease yourself in. Don't go eating giant steaks or anything for a few months."

Wilson rolled his eyes, emotion swelling in his chest. He pointed to the sink, sticking his parched tongue out thirstily. House extracted his hand from Wilson's, pouring him a glass of water and held it up to Wilson's cracked lips. The oncologist drank quickly, the pain in his throat all but eradicated when the liquid hit the Sahara-dry membranes.

"Better?"

"Yeah," Wilson said, his voice thin and quiet.

"By the way, if anyone asks, the shooter always had a beat-up face," the diagnostician murmured, looking down.

"What did you do?"

"When you went into surgery, I snuck down to the morgue and beat the crap out of the bastard," he said, anger leaking into his voice. "No-one shoots my best friend and gets away with it."

"I'm your best friend?"

House squirmed uncomfortably, massaging his thigh.

"Course," he muttered. Wilson grinned, trying to hide his excitement but failing miserably. "You're a lucky bastard," House grumbled. "You don't even have to be strapped down."

The younger doctor shrugged, fidgeting with House's fingers, feeling the callouses from the cane.

"I love you," he said, so quietly that House had to lean in to hear him, before jumping back, shocked.

"Wh-what?" House stuttered, confused for once in his life. Wilson felt his face heating up as he stared down at the thin hospital-issue blanket.

"Ignore me, it was probably just-"

"Shut up," House said distractedly, his eyes fixed on his heartrate monitor. "Look at me."

The oncologist obliged, immediately feeling his heartrate pick up. House leant down and held Wilson's eye open, the electric blue deeply contrasting with the soft brown.

"Heartrate increased, pupils dilated..."

House collapsed into the chair, a finger pressed firmly on his jugular. "Oh, God..."

Wilson closed his eyes, feeling tears prick the back of his eyelids. He was an idiot, he'd probably just ruined the best friendship he'd ever-

"I love you too."

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 **Part 2 coming soon! Please remember to rate and review!**


	5. 5: How We Met

**Shoutout to TheNinjaGirl123. Thank you for making maths unboring, my friend! Based of 5:04 "Birthmarks", and the story of how they met.**

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 _Wilson: There was a medical conference... I was fresh out of med school. I didn't know anybody at the convention... I was at the hotel bar, trying to unwind, have a drink._

Wilson downed his drink in one, slamming the shot glassback on the bar. Clutched in his hand was... well, divorce papers. Sam had finally done it, got up and left him. Now he was alone, only 2 months out of med school, and in a useless conference in Louisiana with a bunch of old farts. He was 25, for God's sake! What was he doing here? He pressed his mouth into a thin line, his mood growing more sour by the minute. 3000 people at this conference, and he was inexplicably mad at every single one of them! Looking around, he called the barkeeper for another drink. Just get drunk and have some wild sex with a really hot hooker, he thought.

 _Wilson: There was this guy who kept playing Billy Joel's "Leave a Tender Moment Alone" on the jukebox._

Oh, God.  
That song. Someone was playing his first dance song. Anger swelling inside of him, he marched up to the large man up to the huge man at the jukebox and tapped him defiantly on the shoulder.  
"What?" the man said, turning around. He was at least 6'9"; Wilson only came up to his midsection.  
"Could you please turn that off?" Wilson squeaked, trying to look bold but failing miserably. It was like a mouse squaring up to a lion!  
"No."  
Wilson nodded shakily, scuttling back to the bar, only to find that someone had stolen his seat. Groaning, he slapped the folder to his head.

 _Wilson: So I- I asked the man to stop, politely.  
_ _House: Yeah, you yelled politely.  
_ _Wilson: I was polite the first couple of times, but courtesy made no impression on this ass._

Why this song? Had Sam sent one of her lackeys here on purpose to piss him off?  
Stay calm, James, stay calm. It's just a song...  
"JUST TURN THE DAMN THING OFF!"

 _Wilson: So I threw a bottle at the mirror, which successfully conveyed my message._

Everyone turned to face him as he seized the nearest bottle, a Merlot, and raised it above his head. Rage spilling over, he hurled it towards the antique mirror...

 _House: And smashed a 10-foot antique mirror. And set an example to 2 other patrons who threw shot glasses.  
_ _Wilson: I had nothing to do with that fight. The assault charge was totally bogus. And I paid for the mirror._

The glass shattered, sending a shower of shards onto the floor. A couple of others, young drunk college students, threw shot glasses, jeering and shouting obscenities at each other as they threw punches at each other. Wilson's shoulders slumped, his eyes wide as he tried to process what he had just done. He could feel people looking at him and whispering as he hung his head, feeling his face heat up with embarrassment. What had he done?  
"Put your hands behind your back, sir."  
Wilson whipped round to see the burly security guy, tapping his foot expectantly.  
"Oh, no, please," he said desperately. "I-I don't know why I did that, please, I'll pay for it, please-"  
The officer grabbed his hands, snapping the handcuffs round his wrists.  
"You're under arrest for vandalism, destruction of property and assault."

 _Costello: I think I have the picture. I assume you're the guy who was playing the song.  
House: No, I was the guy who bailed him out._  
 _Wilson: That's how we met. I was in jail._

The cell was dingy and dark, the small electric light flickering madly. The air smelt strongly of damp, and Wilson could almost taste the spores as he took a deep breath in, trying not to cry. It was pathetic, he knew, but he was absolutely terrified, stealing a glance at the seedy-looking skinhead leaning menacingly on the wall. The desk Sargent had informed him that bail was $2000, something he definitely not afford. He was stuck here until tomorrow morning, at least.  
"James Evan Wilson?"  
Wilson looked up hurriedly to see the desk sarg standing there, arms crossed, a sneer on his face. Standing next to him... Wilson let his mouth drop open. Stood there, a small smirk on his face, was Gregory House, one of the most outrageous and famous up-and-coming diagnosticians in the world. Wilson had read about him in various medical journals, and he had imagined him differently. He'd imagined him as a rather nerdy guy, tall, almost like a jock. In reality, he was scruffy, a small shadow of stubble on his face. His cheekbones were high and sharp, his eyes an electric blue which bored into Wilson's soft brown. "You made bail."  
The officer unlocked the door, allowing Wilson to scramble up and scuttle out, looking starstruck as he gazed at House.  
"I've taken care of this," the young doctor said, his smirk never dropping.  
"Dr House," he stuttered, looking down at the grubby floor.  
"Jimmy," House responded, sticking his hand out. Wilson hurriedly shook it, trembling all over.

 _Costello: This guy was a total stranger to you, and you bailed him out?_  
 _House: It was a boring convention. Had to have somebody to drink with._  
 _Wilson: And there's the foundation of our entire friendship. If you hadn't been bored one weekend, it wouldn't even exist._  
 _House: Hey, there were 3,000 people at that convention. You were the one I thought wasn't boring. That says something._

"Sureyou're not gonna flip out and throw something at me?" House joked from the driver's seat. Wilson was sat, an aura of tenseness surrounding him, next to him, tapping his fingers on the dashboard.  
"Sorry, I'm just a little tense right now," he apologised, casting a glance at the folder, which sat in the backseat, alongside his jacket and other possessions. "Why did you bail me out?"  
"Straight to the point," the diagnostician remarked, eyes fixed on the road. "Conference is boring as hell. I need a drinking buddy, you were bold, outgoing, mildly attractive. I said to myself, 'hey, this one will do'.!"  
Wilson chuckled, shaking his head.  
"What type of doctor are you?" House asked suddenly.  
"Oncologist, why?"  
"Want a job?"

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 **Remember to R &R! Hope you enjoyed it!**


	6. 6: The Calm After The Storm

**Based off the prompt: Person A (House) and Person B (Wilson) share an apartment, but have separate rooms. Person B has a nightmare one night and is really rattled by it. They get out of bed and walk down the hallway to knock on Person A's door. The door is already open and Person B walks into the room silently. They go up to Person A's bed to find that they're already awake. Person B tells Person A that they had a nightmare. Person A scoots over in the bed and lets Person B curl up with them and they fall asleep like this. Enjoy!**

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Night. The back-allies of Princeton. Dr James Wilson wanders, all alone. No phone, no means of communication other than spoken word. The air is thick with the smell of smoke, shouts from thugs drifting into his ears.

A rustle. Our doctor turns around quickly, looking around. An unknown thug emerges from the shadows, smoking gun in his hands. He asks for money. Our man answers, truthfully enough, that he hasn't got anything. He even pulls out his pockets to prove it. This angers the thugs, who shoves the gun onto the oncologist's temple, hissing in his ear, saying he will ask one last time before he shoots. He repeats again, he has nothing but his watch. The thug wrestles the watch off of his wrist, raising the gun.

He shoots our doctor directly in the head.

Wilson woke with a strangled scream, the bed-covers tangled around his legs. He could feel the fear rising in him, his chest heaving as tears fell onto his face. He reached over and flicked the bedside light on, trying to compose himself. He could still see the thug, smell the burning gunpowder from the gun. His breathing remained laboured and heavy, and the oncologist saw the edges of his vision go blurry as his brain didn't get enough oxygen. Virtually having a panic attack, he stumbled upwards, almost tripping over the sheets which were still wound tightly around his legs as he made his way toward his best friend's room, unaware that it was the middle of the night.

House's door, bizarrely, was already open. Wilson hurriedly wiped his eyes before he went in, trying to calm himself down.

"House?" he said quietly, tapping the diagnostician on the shoulder. House, rolled over, his inquisitive icy blue eyes filled with concern as he took inventory of Wilson's tear-streaked face. "I had a nightmare."

House rolled his eyes, but moved over, making room for the oncologist. Wilson hesitantly lay down next to him, curling up into a ball, his head resting on House's undamaged left thigh. His breathing almost immediately slowed down, and heartrate stopped being pretty much tachycardic. House, that manipulative bastard, that arrogant idiot, somehow had a calming effect on Wilson, kept the fear at bay.

Wilson felt his eyelids begin to droop, but he felt safe. He knew House would protect him.

House would always protect him.

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 **Very short, this one. I'm sort of depressed from just finishing Hamilton, so there might be some sad ones coming up (including one set after the show; will be super sad). Has anyone been having problems uploading new files? If so, could you please let me know in the reviews? I just wanna know whether it's just me or not. Please remember to R &R! *u***


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